


Let Me Hear The Waves Crash-Land

by nazgularepeopletoo



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Angst, Depictions of wounds, Gen, Hospitals, Post-Canon, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:22:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23277781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nazgularepeopletoo/pseuds/nazgularepeopletoo
Summary: He didn’t know when he’d been shot, but he had been. There was blood down his leg and a hole in his thigh, and walking without a limp was out of the question. The wound was discovered on the train when he collapsed on the steps into the cabin, the adrenaline of nearly dying for a week straight finally wearing off.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5
Collections: song prompt





	Let Me Hear The Waves Crash-Land

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Regina Spektor's "Obsolete"

He didn’t know when he’d been shot, but he had been. There was blood down his leg and a hole in his thigh, and walking without a limp was out of the question. The wound was discovered on the train when he collapsed on the steps into the cabin, the adrenaline of nearly dying for a week straight finally wearing off. He’d cried out, hands grabbing him on instinct before he could hit the sharp edges. His vision almost went black, but he was able to pull himself back by focusing on the murmurs around him, growing in intensity until he heard someone by his ear shout for a medic or a nurse or someone with medical knowledge. 

Hands carried him away from the train, and it was with a shock that he realised he couldn’t put weight on his left leg. They started to set him down, but another shout stopped them. One of the men holding his leg nudged the bullet wound with his finger and he yelled again, tensing and almost wrenching himself out of their grasp. It was on the back of his thigh; they couldn’t set him down without a stretcher. 

It was about that time that his vision finally faded, the darkness creeping in around the edges as he was moved, each hit on the wound a fresh stab of pain that ebbed the black closer until he was out, drifting away into the comfort of unconsciousness. 

~~

Lance Corporal Abernethy was brought to the hospital still asleep and didn’t wake up until two days later, most likely due to exhaustion, lack of nutrition, and pain. He wasn’t able to talk to anyone other than doctors for another few days, making it a full five days after the evacuation from Dunkirk beach before he could ask anyone about the rest of his regiment. The Captain came in to brief him, folder tucked under his arm and nose in the air, as if he had better things to do than deal with a Highlander with a bum leg. He probably did, too, but Abernethy didn’t dwell on that, just like he didn’t dwell on the fact that he would probably have to be discharged. The bullet had nicked his femur, landing him in a cast until the broken bone could heal fully, which could take up to six months. 

He didn’t listen to most of the Captains words, letting them filter through and picking out what he deemed important. Something about honourable this, recuperation that, if he wanted to come back and help at a desk he could feel free. When the Captain finally took a break, looking at him expectantly, he asked, voice shaky from disuse and accent thick. 

“What happened t’ the rest of my regiment, sir?” The Captain didn’t look surprised at the question; he’d heard the Highlanders had been scattered, quite a few of them missing, presumed dead. He’d even prepared a list for this sort of thing, so he pulled it out, glancing between it and the Lance Corporal. 

“Any specific name?” Abernethy had to think for a second, names and faces vaguely blurred from the morphine. 

“Lance Corporal Ballantine, sir. I lost ‘im on the boats, haven’t seen ‘im since.” The Captain took a moment to scan the names, and before he even opened his mouth again Abernethy knew what he was going to say. His heart sank, and he leaned back against the pillow. He missed the attempt at a sympathetic smile he was offered, preparing himself for the words that followed.

“I’m sorry, son. He’s on my list of missing. If he was on the beach we might be able to-” Abernethy shook his head, coughing loudly to cover the quivering of his lip. 

“We were in th’ water. He didn’t…" His voice trailed off. "Thank you, sir.” His eyes were shut now, forcing himself to hold himself together, at least until the officer left. He felt a soft touch on his shoulder, a soft apology, the sound of boots leaving the room. 

It was then he let himself go, sobbing quietly into his sleeve as tears streaked through the accumulated filth still clinging to his cheeks that refused to wash off. He’d lost men before, he’d lost officers, but Ballantine… he’d been more than that, even if they’d never admitted it to each other, a fact that Abernethy now regretted acutely. The nurses huddled in the doorway, watching with sorrow filled eyes as they let him express his grief unhindered, knowing it would be better for him in the long run that way. 

~~

It wasn’t until the war was over, almost seven years later that Abernethy returned to Dunkirk beach, now sporting civilian clothes and a permanent crutch. The bone had healed nicely, but he’d never returned to active duty, taking a job in correspondence to assist the war effort. Now that it was over he felt lost, alone. When it became unbearable he knew he had to act. So he went to France. 

The beach was deserted when he arrived, waving for the taxi to go if it wanted. He didn’t know how long he would be there, after all, and he wasn’t exactly rich. A walk would do him good; it wasn’t that far back to civilization. Making his way down to where the waves met the sand, it seemed to be low tide just then, he lowered himself down onto the damp sand, stretching his leg out with a quiet grunt. He just sat for a moment, eyes closed to heighten his other senses, letting the scent of the ocean wash over him with the soft lapping of the waves. 

When he started shivering, he opened his eyes, reaching into his pocket to pull out a small bundle of letters, shuffling through them. They were mismatched, written on whatever had been on hand at the time, one of them even scribbled on a napkin. All of them were addressed to Lance Corporal Ballantine, signed Lance Corporal Abernethy. Swallowing a lump in his throat, he dug into the sand, making a hole deep enough to cover all of the letters. Before placing them in, he brought the stack up to his lips, kissing it gently. 

Sand back in place, he struggled to his feet, leaning heavily on the crutch. He stood for just another minute, staring out into the water that had taken so much from them, then turned, making his way slowly up the beach, leaving it behind forever. 


End file.
